


Better safe than sorry

by Xenay



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidents, Bladder Control, But No Deaths, Diapers, Gen, Incontinence, Low Self-Esteem, Medical Conditions, Mycroft is a good brother, Overdose, Wetting, bladder, nappies, sherlock at breaking point, sherlock is incontinent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 10:52:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18119345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xenay/pseuds/Xenay
Summary: There are many ways to say "Better Safe Than Sorry", but never did Sherlock think it could hurt him so much.After Serbia, Sherlock has nerve damage that makes him urinary incontinent. He has to find back to himself and accept that nothing will ever be the same.Cover Arthttps://www.deviantart.com/xxenayx/art/Cover-Art-for-Better-Safe-Than-Sorry-789698702Sequel:https://archiveofourown.org/works/18618865





	Better safe than sorry

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Padded And Protected](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11816574) by [yaoi_yuri_lover_404](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaoi_yuri_lover_404/pseuds/yaoi_yuri_lover_404). 



> I don't know how this happened. One moment I was reading the mentioned work, and the next I found myself writing this for two days. Not sure if I'll continue it or make it a series or something.
> 
> I wrote this from my own experiences. Although I live like this since primary school and sometimes still can't handle to deal with it and just accept it.

 

 

 

Mycroft had finally brought his little brother home. Sadly it was _after_ he was tortured in Serbia.

Unbeknownst to him, his brother had taken more than just a few scars to his back.

 

The first time he noticed that something was off was when they were sitting at the dinner table. Mycroft was reading newspapers as he was long done with his serving, while Sherlock was mostly picking at his. But Mycroft wouldn't let him leave until most of it was gone. And by gone he didn't mean anything other than landing in his much too skinny brother's stomach.

Sherlock was squirming.

Mycroft lowered his papers and raised an eyebrow. This was new.

Probably feeling his brothers eyes on him, Sherlock stilled.

Mycroft returned to reading, but still kept an eye on his brother from his peripheral vision.

It was silent for about twenty minutes before it was suddenly broken by a low gasp. Mycroft immediately looked at his brother again, genuinely wondering what could make his brother act so.... off.

But more than see, he could _hear_ it. A soft hissing, later followed by a telling pitter patter, and his brother was flushed in his face. Mortified.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft tried, once he was certain his brother was done, or managed to stop it.

His brother wouldn't answer him. Wouldn't even look at him.

Mycroft laid his papers down on the table and looked intently at his brother. "Go change. I'll get someone to clean this up." He said gently.

His tense brother jumped up and left the room in a hurry. Mycroft not daring to look for himself what state his clothes were, and had closed his eyes.

 

"Sir?" A female voice asked.

Mycroft turned to Anthea, who was standing in the door through which Sherlock vanished not a minute ago.

"He stormed into his room. Is everything alright?"

"I wish I had an answer to that." Mycroft said with a heavy voice.

* * *

 

 

After the second time it happened - completely catching both off guard when Sherlock was absorbed in his violin playing, almost dropping the delicate instrument in his shock when his pants suddenly got soaked in his own liquids without much of a warning - Mycroft decided to have his doctors check him through.

Many, very uncomfortable, tests later he was put in diaper-like incontinence pants, much to his dislike. "Better to be safe than sorry later", one of the doctors told him. Nerve damage, they said. No reassurance of making a full recovery.

Sherlock didn't come out of his room for the rest of the day.

Mycroft didn't blame him.

* * *

 

 

And then he and John met again. In a restaurant. Just when John was about to propose.

John tackled him to the ground. On his back. With no mercy at Sherlocks hisses of pain.

Only when they were all thrown out of the restaurant did John's fury let up.

And a black car showed up right before them. The window in the back came down, and they saw Mycroft himself. "Get in the car, both of you." Either he hadn't seen Mary, or he didn't want her involved.

John gave Mary an apologetic glance. "Go on, this is not my business." She told him with a painfully understanding smile.

Sighing in defeat, John got in, and after him did Sherlock.

 

On the ride back, Sherlock was getting anxious. Maybe he should have used the bathroom at the restaurant before they were forced to leave. Who knows when his bladder would strike again? He shifted in his seat.

Mycroft gave his brother a concerned glance. "Sherlock?"

His brother didn't say anything, only looked his big brother in the eyes. Apparently that said enough. No, he wasn't wet or desperate, just nervous about the not-knowing.

 

John cleared his throat. "So. He is not dead. And you probably knew all along." He glared at Mycroft.

"Yes." Was all Mycroft had to say in his defense.

John didn't know what to say to this anymore. Everything was just so sudden.

"Well someone has to make sure that London doesn't drown in all the crimes, what with New Scotland Yard being utterly useless." Well at least Sherlock had a bit of his cockyness back now, Mycroft thought.

Sadly John didn't seem amused by this and nearly attacked him again had Mycroft not held him back. He did manage to land a few punches to his ...former friend?

Though he couldn't have hit him hard, and it was probably more the sudden attack than anything else, it had made Sherlock lose a short spurt and give a startled squeaking noise as he desperately crossed his legs tightly and clenched his eyes even tighter.

John seemed to be concerned now, the noise and actions must have broken his temporary fury. "Sherlock? Jesus!"

Mycroft was still holding Johns arms in an iron grip, knowing how his brother felt about being touched, and not wanting to risk making him more anxious.

John struggled in his grip. "Let me go this instant, Mycroft!"

"Refrain from touching my brother. Or else we will have a problem." Mycroft said, but his threat was more concerned about what would happen to Sherlock if he was touched in this state.

 

His brother finally relaxed a bit again, but he seemed to be embarrassed. And John didn't know the reason.

"I swear I didn't even hit you _that_ hard, Sherlock. What's wrong, are you hurt? Ill?" The army doctor asked. He didn't understand. Never before has Sherlock reacted like this when they had a bit of a fight. Well, before his 'death' at least.

"I'm fine." Sherlock said but his voice was missing the fire that usually made everyone shut up and not question him. He won't look at anyone. He was staring out the window as if these roads were new to him.

John gave Mycroft a look that said that he had no idea what is going on, and, please explain.

Mycroft nodded. "I will explain once we are at the Diogenes Club." He then said to the driver to hurry a bit.

Sherlock swallowed a 'don't do it Mycroft, I'll be fine', because he felt like he was going to lose what little control he had left. It was starting to seriously hurt, but he wasn't comfortable with wetting himself in a car with his brother And John present right next to him.

He groaned as he lost another spurt. And winced at the stab of pain when he tried to hold it off.

Mycroft was starting to want to tell his brother to just let go, seeing his pain clear as day. But this was still so new to the both of them and if he was being honest, Mycroft didn't want his brother to wet himself either. Belstaff or not.

Right before the car pulled into the parking lot, Sherlock finally lost the battle with a painful groan. Both witnessing men gave him sympathetic looks, though one had no idea what just happened.

 

Mycroft had ushered John into a sort of conference room and then went to help his brother change.

John slumped down on a chair and put his head in his hands, elbows resting on the table surface. What in the world is going on?

Suddenly his best friend returns out of nowhere and now... is he changed? Damaged, even?

John heaved a sigh. Please no. Not Sherlock.

 

The door opened behind him, but only the elder Holmes emerged again to join him.

"Sherlock is taking a shower. Wether he will join us afterwards is entirely up to him." He explained.

"Ah." Was all John managed.

Mycroft took a seat opposite of John's.

"In his time away he got attacked and, I hate to say it, tortured. In Serbia."

John's eyes widened. "What?" He whispered.

"I got him back home exactly a week ago. He apparently suffered nerve damage and seems to be nearly incontinent." Mycroft continued.

Some things suddenly made sense in John's muddled brain.

"You must understand that these past two years have been utter hell for him. More so than yours." The elder Holmes said sadly.

Before John got a chance to say anything to this, the door opened and the younger Holmes entered the room. All eyes were on him, and he didn't know if he could sit with John or should sit with his brother. So he just stood there near the door in awkward silence, not meeting anyones gaze.

"Sherlock, come sit." Mycroft finally said and pulled back the chair right next to him.

Hesitantly his brother made his way over to him and sat down slowly, carefully, and didn't touch the rest with his back.

"How are you feeling?" John asked, uncertainty coating his voice.

Sherlock shrugged. "Sore." And subconsciously held his lower abdomen with an arm.

Neither commented.

Until John had to pull a doctor. "You probably shouldn't have tried to hold it, you could seriously hurt yourself." He lectured, but it lacked any sternness.

"Not good?" Sherlock asked jokingly.

John smiled. "Bit not good. Yeah."

 

* * *

 

 

After packing his things and Mycroft's "are you sure you want to be alone so soon?" Sherlock was back in Baker Street. He managed to avoid Mrs Hudsons mollycoddling and breathed in the familiar air as he stood in the empty flat. Everything was still how he left it. Sentiment, he figured.

He went over to the kitchen table, aka his little lab, and remembered the experiment he was trying to do. The solutions in the Erlenmeyer flasks were useless by now, so he'd have to make them again.

Without anything better to do, he sat down on his familiar stool and got to work.

 

Around an hour later he noticed little pains in his lower abdomen. He knew he should get up and just go to the bathroom. But this was an important part of the experiment, one which he just could not mess up, and he couldn't spare even a second of anything else other than precision.

He ignored it, and after a bit it just vanished itself. He just focused his full attention to his work.

 

Half an hour later the pains were back, and much more fierce.

The detective gasped in surprise as well as pain and almost dropped his solutions. He crossed his legs and clenched them out of habit. His brain was preoccupied with his experiment, and he temporarily didn't remember that he was actually wearing protection. Because of a medical condition. And that he probably shouldn't be holding it in the first place.

He kept squirming and clenching for another half an hour until he just couldn't hold it anymore. It just poured out of him, and he froze mid stirring.

He was suddenly glad that John didn't live with him anymore. The doctor would have scolded him and forced him to go to the bathroom long ago.

He remembered the - ahem - special underwear and noticed that his bladder area still hurt when he was certain that it didn't contain a single drop anymore.

Well, his experiment was done, too. So he stood up - and immediately hunched over himself. This hurts!

Why did it hurt so much?

He went over to the bathroom to get changed, although he was seriously scared now. Maybe he shouldn't have left Mycroft's home so soon. Maybe the doctors should have made more tests.

Sherlock let out a painful whine when another sharp stab ran through him.

He wished John was here...

 

* * *

 

 

In the morning Sherlock got up and went to the bathroom to take care of his business. He doesn't wet himself at night, which he is glad for. He was also glad to note that the pain from the previous day was gone.

When he was done with taking care of his hygiene he noticed that his phone was lit up. He already had a message? He had a new number, since his old phone was destroyed when he threw it down on the rooftop.

He shuddered. He never wants to do that ever again. Despite what everyone might think, he did have fears. And he was terrified of heights.

Needless to say, that event was the scariest thing he had ever done.

 

The text was from Lestrade. Apparently he had a new case he couldn't make sense of, and was asking for him.

Just when he went to text him back, he got a text from John.

'Got a text from Lestrade. You in?'

So John was joining him? Just like old times?

A sudden relief filled him and for a second he was afraid that he could have possibly wet himself. But he found he was dry, and it would be impossible since he just came from the bathroom.

He looked back at his phone and typed a response.

'The Game is back on. - SH'

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock made use of the bathroom again, just before he left to meet Greg and John (and probably the idiots of Scotland Yard) again. Better to be safe than sorry.

It still didn't ease his anxiety. He was genuinely afraid that he might have an accident, right in front of the idiots that already call him a freak. If they found out then he would never get rid of the hateful name.

Why did he suddenly care what others thought of him?

 

The drive was short, thankfully, and he found that everyone was already waiting for him.

Donovan and Anderson glared at him. Lestrade seemed to want to greet him but Sherlock cut him to it.

"So what have we got, Inspector?" Sherlock said casually, avoiding any kind of small talk. He just wanted to be in the safety of his home.

"Sergeant Donovan and me have been trying to catch them for a long time now. Seems they are 3 guys with masks and they always manage to vanish before we got to them. We can't seem to catch them in the act."

Behind him, Sally seemed to have noticed something on Sherlock. She whispered to Anderson and they both sniggered. John glared at them, but Lestrade made the horrible mistake and asked them what was so funny.

"What happened to your ass, freak?" Sally asked with a smug grin on her face and Sherlock felt his blood leave his face.

"Is he wearing a.. a diaper?!" Anderson joined in and laughed.

"Dang, not only is he a freak of nature, but now he's one of _those babies!_ " She burst out in laughter.

Lestrade gave Sherlock a questioning look. John went over to the two most inhuman people he had ever met and seemed to barely manage not to bash their heads in.

Sherlock just mentally cursed his damn choice in wearing those blasted tight pants. He didn't think it was that noticeable, but apparently it was. And to make matters worse he could feel a tingling in his bladder. He made the mistake of crossing his legs, which elected more laughter from the two.

"Oh look Sally, I think the baby's gotta go potty!"

"Is baby gonna have an accident?"

They burst out laughing again, and Sherlock just turned away and left. "Sherlock! Wait!" John called after him, but knew it was useless. If it were him, he wouldn't look back, either. He glared at Lestrade. "Get your damn team under control!" He shouted at the DI and then hurried after Sherlock.

 

The second they got home, Sherlock made a dash for the bathroom, locked the door and changed himself in privacy. Then he quickly vanished into his room, locked and barricaded the door, and didn't come out for hours.

John stayed with him in the flat. He had texted Mary that he will be home very late, that something happened, but she shouldn't worry.

 

The detective hasn't said much since he finally came out of his room again and John was growing very concerned.

Sherlock laid on the couch in fetal position with his back to John.

"Sherlock." No reaction. "Sherlock I'm going to ask you something and I want you to be honest, alright?"

Sherlock shifted onto his back and turned his head to look at John.

"Are you feeling ashamed? And I don't ask about specifics. Are you feeling ashamed of anything that has to do with you and your new situation? Of the problem, of yourself, or the nappies, self conscious about it, about the things Sally and Anderson said. Anything?"

Sherlock didn't answer except to swallow painfully. It was all the answer that John needed.

 

A few hours after John had to leave because he had to be at work tomorrow, Mrs Hudson brought up some biscuits and tea, and noticed that something was up. She placed the tablet down on the coffee table and sat down next to him on the couch. He was like her child in some ways, and she always knew when something was bothering him.

"Sherlock dear. Please talk to me." She said and laid a hand on his back. He let himself be sat up but refused to look her in the eyes.

After a few minutes of silence he just couldn't take it anymore. It was all just finally too much.

"I just can't take it anymore!" He finally got out, tears finally streaming down his face.

Mrs Hudson wrapped her arms around the distraught detective. She let him break down his walls, and let him openly sob on her shoulder.

They sat in silence for a long time, Mrs Hudson cooing soft words to him as he let out all the hurt he had kept bottled to himself the past weeks.

At some point she put him down in his bed and told him to get some rest. That the world would shine in a different light tomorrow. That everything will be okay.

 

But as he awoke a few hours later, because he started wetting himself in his sleep, it was the last straw.

He was about to start crying again when he got mad. Mad at himself, mad at everything. He was just **_done_**.

He went to the bathroom to change out of the blasted thing, and didn't bother putting on a new one.

"I'm sorry." He mumbled as he opened the painkiller package.

 

* * *

 

 

John was called awake by his phone at 4 in the morning. Sleepily he picked it up and looked at the caller ID.

It was Mycroft, of all people.

And there weren't many reasons as to why he would call him. At this time no less.

"Mycroft?"

"Come to St. Barth's immediately."

"What's going on?"

"He overdosed."

The call abruptly ended and John felt never more awake than after his brain processed Mycroft's words.

Shit.

 

At the hospital he found Mycroft in the waiting room. "Any news?" He asked the elder Holmes.

He was disappointed when the other shook his head.

"Do you know on what he overdosed?" John asked hesitantly.

Mycroft looked him in the eyes. "Surprisingly not on any of his usual drugs. He took simple painkillers. Although he must have swallowed half the package. Mrs Hudson found him and this is apparently what is left." He told him and took out a small package of strong Paracetamol, which appeared to have been ripped open. John took it from his hands when they were offered, and saw that an entire plate of pills was empty. The other seemed untouched, though it didn't ease his worry.

 

A while later a doctor finally came up to them and told them that Sherlock was on his way to recovery, still unconscious, and that they had flushed out his stomach of the pills. He told them that the pills were barely absorbed, and that there shouldn't be lasting damage.

"Can we see him?" John asked. He needed to see him. He needed to see for himself that Sherlock was gonna be alright.

"Sure, but not for too long. He needs his rest." He said and motioned for John and Mycroft to follow him.

 

Sherlock was fast asleep in the hospital bed, an IV in his arm and connected to a heart monitor when John and Mycroft came in. Both only stood in silence, trying to take it in and make sense of everything again.

After a few minuted the doctor cleared his throat to get their attention again. "He won't be awake for another few hours, and we still need a bit of information."

"Of course."

"Sure."

John gave Sherlock a last glance before he followed the others, mentally apologizing for failing his best friend when he needed him.

They were asked a lot of things about Sherlock, and later were asked who they were to him. Mycroft told the doctor that he was his brother, and that Doctor Watson was his general physician, so he could stay as long as he wanted.

 

When John got back to Sherlock's room - Mycroft was called to an emergency conference in Berlin - he was surprised to find the detective awake. And with a surge of panic realized that he was about to stand up.

"Sherlock!" He yelled as he quickly strode over to him and pushed him back onto the bed. "You are on bed rest, doctors orders!" He then checked to make sure he was still connected to the IV and the heart monitor, only to find both disconnected and the monitor muted so it wouldn't whine as it showed a steady flatline.

Sherlock grimaced. "John I need to go."

"You are impossible. You just nearly killed yourself and now you want to leave again?!"

Sherlock shook his head sluggishly. "Noo..", he whined. " _Go_.."

John still didn't seem to get it. "You are not to leave this bed, you hear me?"

But to his surprise Sherlock groaned, tensed up, and when John looked down he saw him leaking a bit. Oooh.

"Hold on." He said and went over to the cabinets on the other side of the room, grabbing what looked like a weirdly shaped bottle and rushing back over to him. "Here."

Sherlock shook his head, blushing now.

"Now is not the time to be embarrassed. I can leave the room if you want me to but you are not going to a bathroom."

Sherlock sighed. He decided to just lean back a bit, spread his legs and let John help him. He couldn't really move or grab things - the line to the IV and heart monitor were a long enough struggle to prove that. He had felt close to losing control the second he woke up - curse the damn IV - and found that he wasn't wearing any protection, so he had to disconnect everything he was connected to - since pressing the nurse call button was completely out of the question - and was just about to finally get to the bathroom when John came back in.

"Alright, just relax and-" John was cut off by a thin and weak stream. "Sorry.." Sherlock mumbled, he just couldn't hold back anymore and if John hadn't been so quick he would have lost it, his body not caring where.

When the bottle was almost halfway filled his trickle came to an end, and Sherlock felt horribly embarrassed all over again for not being able to hold such a small amount. He groaned and wrapped an arm over his face, holding himself up with the other.

"It's perfectly fine, Sherlock." John told him gently and then went to empty the bottle in the bathroom.

 

When he came back he found Sherlock curled up in the bed and almost completely buried under the blanket.

Suddenly it dawned to him. "Why are you without-.. without the- um.."

Sherlock sighed. "I was sick of it." He admitted in a hoarse voice.

John didn't blame him. Hell, if he suddenly, from one day to the next, was turned incontinent for the rest of his life, nearly constantly wetting himself, he would grow sick of everything too. He laid a hand on his friends back - or where he assumed was his back under the blanket - and gently rubbed up and down. "It's okay."

"No.. it's not." Came heartbreakingly from under the blanket.

"No.. but it is what it is."

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I am going to hell now. Bye.
> 
>  
> 
> Edit: the sequel is out now!
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/18618865


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